


no matter what i do (i'm no good without you)

by thimble



Series: something stupid [4]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-13
Updated: 2017-03-13
Packaged: 2018-10-04 06:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10269998
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thimble/pseuds/thimble
Summary: "Don't..." Himuro's eyes are closed, like words are easier when he doesn't have to acknowledge that he has company. "Don't go, after this."





	

**Author's Note:**

> prompts taken from [here](http://robbersdjh.tumblr.com/post/114789651506/prompts-1-things-you-said-at-1-am-2-things).
> 
> this ship cursed my dick.

**things you said with my lips on your neck**

 

It's like this: Aomine has this habit he can't kick, annoying and inappropriate as it is. No one would say it's particularly surprising, or out of character, but if they knew they'd laugh their asses off anyway. Not that he'd ever tell a soul.

It's like this: basketball and sex have become so tangled up in his head that it's hard to tell them apart.

It's _messed up_ , but it's been like this ever since he can remember first adjusting his shorts at the sight of something particularly — exhilarating.

Maybe he shouldn't have been thinking about that sort of stuff while he was on court. Maybe his eyes shouldn't have been lingering too long on the way jerseys used to hang off other guys' broad frames.

Maybe he isn't helping matters by dating a basketball player, of all things (and Himuro Tatsuya, of all people, with his shooting guard's fingers and thighs firmed by diligence first, vanity second.)

The matter is only sometimes regrettable, like when he's on the receiving end of Himuro's deviousness, or his ire — both utterly destructive in their own ways — or while his mouth is against Himuro's throat and all he can think of is _wow, this doesn't feel like a basketball at all._

Who does that?

To his credit, the thought had followed a logical leap, just not one that most people would make. Most people wouldn't immediately compare the texture of random objects with a basketball's rough, leather surface, but most people haven't been handling them as long and as frequently as he has.

So, to the misfortune of everyone involved, here he is, fantasizing about basketballs while he's got a warm body pressed against the wall, shifting according to each careless graze of his hands as they wander underneath that shirt.

The main difference, he thinks, since he's already fucked anyway, is the give. Himuro's skin is sensitive, and easily marked — a scratch of his nails leaves behind flushed red lines, and the slightest pressure with his teeth has the same effect as footprints on wet cement.

Basketballs show no sign of having been touched, at least, when unaided by time. And old, smoothened balls get replaced eventually, while Aomine can't imagine trading in Himuro, sensitive skin, sensitive... everything, and all.

"Daiki," says Himuro now, his voice restrained and undone all at once, "..."

Aomine doesn't quite hear the tail end of the sentence, so his lips pause in their self-appointed artistry as he mutters an eloquent, "yeah?"

"Don't..." Himuro's eyes are closed, like words are easier when he doesn't have to acknowledge that he has company. "Don't go, after this."

There's a crease in Aomine's forehead when he answers, "Wasn't planning to leave 'til morning anyway."

"No, I mean." A breath, deep, as if summoned from lower than his lungs, and Himuro forces out, "stay. Here. With me. If you'd like to." His fingers, talented and graceful, are a little clumsy now as they play with the hair at Aomine's neck, an idle gesture that can mean nothing but doesn't, because Aomine knows him well enough to recognize it as a nervous tic.

"I'd like you to."

It takes several seconds to process, but only one for the grin to grow on Aomine's face.

"You want me to move in with you?"

"If you'd rather I phrased it like a question..."

"Don't be a smartass, smartass. Like I'd pass up a chance to get out of the dorms." Were he younger, and stupider, he'd leave it at that, but before any kind of storm threatens to brew in Himuro's (now opened) eyes, he adds, "and, y'know, seeing your dumb face everyday."

What he gets in return is a smile unraveled by relief. "Then it's a yes?"

Aomine rolls his eyes and deigns to reply, suffixing the affirmation instead with a purposeful grab at the front of Himuro's jeans and the descent of his lips on soft skin once again. And if the current thumping in his chest somehow resembles the harried dribble of leather on linoleum, the breath in his ear like the collective gasp of a crowd after a well-executed dunk, that's none of anyone else's business.

 

* * *

  
  
**things you said with your hands holding mine**

 

He's a grown man; there's no reason he shouldn't know how to do this. To add to that, he's a man who grew up alongside Momoi Satsuki in all her capable glory... which must be explanation enough. If he'd always relied on her to do this for him, it's understandable why he never learned.

It's a juvenile move to blame his ineptitude on someone else, but Aomine would argue that he's allowed to be immature once in awhile.

Though maybe he should dedicate more thought to the matter at hand than the circumstances that landed him here in the first place. Specifically, with an unraveled tie around his neck and total ignorance on how to tie it.

And just when he was about to strangle himself in the midst of wrangling it into submission, Himuro walks in, his timing as dependably terrible as ever.

(To his credit, he had walked into Aomine's life right at the perfect moment, which is about as sentimental as Aomine would admit.)

"What are you doing, Daiki?" he asks, amusement ever present in his voice, a dead giveaway that he knows exactly what's going on. "Don't tell me—"

"Yeah, yeah, just get it over with." Aomine rolls his eyes, displeased at having been found out but too prideful to give up. "Tell me I'm an idiot."

"Don't be like that." Himuro clicks his tongue, joining Aomine in front of the mirror, no doubt to flaunt his flawlessly knotted tie. This treats Aomine to an unparalleled view of his teasing smile as he adds, "though yes, you're an idiot."

Aomine grunts, almost tempted not to dignify it with an answer, but too irritated to let it go. "You done?"

Himuro shakes his head, then shifts to block Aomine's reflection to stand in front of him instead. His hands reach up to halt Aomine's in their futile effort, his voice now imploring instead of lightly chiding.

"Let me take care of you."

It's far too intimate a sequence of words than the moment warrants.

"Whatever," Aomine replies, though his ears are telltale in their warmth as he relinquishes the reins. Himuro's smile widens at the assent, his fingers getting to work without further prompting.

He's quick at it, which makes Aomine's attempts seem pathetically slow. But there's no more condescension in Himuro's expression, just concentration, his eyes intently focused with his hair pushed back from his face.

Occasionally, his knuckles would brush against Aomine's throat, and Aomine would swallow in response. A reaction that, fortunately, neither of them acknowledge out loud.

When he's done, Himuro nods at his work, though his gaze travels farther down, then up, in an unmistakable once over. Then — get this — he _bites his lip._

"No way," Aomine blurts out, half-incredulous and half caught in laughter. "You're getting off on this."

"Well," Himuro says, looking thoroughly admonished. "If you wore a suit more often, I'd be used to it."

"And miss out on this?" Aomine's grin is unabashedly shit-eating, and he suspects it'll stay like that for the rest of the evening. "Another reason to skip charity events. It's a win-win."

Himuro, in his own gesture of immaturity, gives him the finger. Aomine considers it another victory, even if he's _also_ getting a little hot under the collar. For a second, he considers undoing Himuro's hard work, then getting both of them out of these stuffy clothes, who cares about some stupid formal dinner — but all of that can wait. The merits of delayed gratification, and all that.

"You gonna stand there and eyefuck me all night, or are we gonna get going?"

"Next time, I'll just let you suffer." Himuro's palm finds the small of his back, and it prods him in the direction of the door.

"Yeah, sure. I know you get off on that too."

Aomine's surprised Himuro doesn't throw a shoe at his head, because really, he deserves it.

 

* * *

 

**things you said that made me feel like shit**

 

It's a nice night.

Granted, his current definition of 'nice' is marred by his mood, murky and turbulent as it is, so in this case he doesn't mean a full moon, doesn't mean a skyful of stars. Just light pollution taking prisoners, just a sleeping city against a stark black backdrop.

Just him and his thoughts, as cruel as they are specific.

He can say all sorts of shit about how doing this gives him peace, clears his head, and none will be the wiser except himself.

Well, himself and one other person, but storming out the way he did would lose its meaning if he didn't at least try to take that guy off his mind. The gesture was supposed to be symbolic, was supposed to make a point...

Wasn't supposed to prove _him_ right.

It's a nice night.

Would be nicer if he could feel his face, numb as it is from the cold.

Smoking is a paltry and temporary solution, but he savors the quick burst of heat from the lighter, and gathers what comfort he can from the fire in his lungs. A shiver crawls over his shoulders the moment he exhales, the warmth leaving him in a literal puff of smoke.

His silent, self-imposed suffering doesn't last.

Time is sluggish in this season, minutes taking twice as long, hours spent turning into an icicle amplified. So it couldn't have been more than half an hour since he left the apartment, but his chilly veins protest otherwise.

Which is why he forgets himself in a split-second of relief when the weight of a familiar fabric is draped over him, why he leans into the hands that none too gracefully bundle him in a scarf. A fabric that's familiar too, not in sensation but in smell.

It's that smell that pulls him back from giving into the urge of gratitude-induced forgiveness, pulls him back into himself.

His closed off, evasive, unreachable self.

Staunchly, steadily, he keeps his gaze forward instead flitting over to the presence now beside him. But ignoring that presence is harder when it speaks, in the one voice he wants, and doesn't want, to hear.

"Leaving without a coat on... pretty fucking stupid, I gotta say. It's the middle of winter, y'know?" Aomine snorts with short-lived amusement, muted when he speaks again. "That's the kind of shit I'd pull."

Himuro waits for something else. Anything else. When it doesn't come, he crushes his cigarette into the snow, but not before lighting another with the burning tip of it. If silences could sound like anything, Aomine's right now would be screaming of annoyance.

"Can you just—" Briefly, Himuro feels the brush of Aomine's rough fingertips against his lips as he pulls out the cigarette from between them, tossing it farther than he had to until it was out of sight. Irritation is heavy in the sigh Aomine emits, though it switches into an ever-so slight exasperation when he says, "I'm trying to... I was gonna say sorry, and you're being an—"

"I'm an asshole, Daiki." Himuro interrupts. If he wasn't exactly what Aomine had accused him of being earlier, his tone wouldn't be so flat. "I'm a cagey asshole and you don't know anything about me because I won't let you. We've established that."

It had stung, half an hour ago, and it still stings now, even if it's things he knows are true. Hypocrites never want to be confronted with their own bullshit.

One part of him thinks he's stumped Aomine. The other part thinks Aomine might agree. All of him holds the firm belief that he's proven himself too stubborn, too difficult, and especially far too much to handle for a guy who'd spent a good portion of his youth running away from his issues.

He expects to hear footsteps walking away, not drawing closer; he doesn't expect to feel those hands on him again, their grip on his upper arms firm as Aomine forces their eyes together. It's not easy, with only sparse lamplight to illuminate each other's faces, but Himuro's found that once they've met it takes a strength of will he doesn't always have to look away.

"Listen, you're not... I mean, you _are_ hard to know, but I..." Himuro sets his jaw, bracing himself, and he can bet with almost full certainty that Aomine's doing the same. "I fucking like that about you, okay?"

Here, Aomine's hands fall to his sides, as does his gaze to the ground. "It means I don't get bored."

This time, the silence that stretches is occupied only by a gust of wind, and it would've been harsh on Himuro's chapped lips, his numb cheeks, if it weren't for—

"Nice thinking, bringing the scarf," he says. Quiet, soft, and full of all the other things he doesn't say. "I thought my ears were gonna freeze off."

Himuro doesn't need moonlight to know there's hope graffitied on every inch of Aomine's face, the spray paint leaking into his voice, the colors warm and bright, "'coz you were being a dumbass, dumbass."

The tension doesn't snap — it seeps out, leaving nothing but space between them that Himuro dissolves by reaching for one of Aomine's hands.

"All this, and no gloves?"

Aomine shrugs. "Thought it'd be warmer this way."

Their fingers lace together like it's their natural course, and each time Himuro smiles on the way home feels more genuine than the last.

 

* * *

 

**things you didn’t say at all**

 

Himuro Tatsuya is a contradiction walking, going about his day as casually as he pleases with an errant disregard for the fact that he shouldn't exist.

That's not entirely true. To put it like those psychology books Aomine had to read for class, being human means being full of bullshit most of the time. But it _is_ true that he's never met anyone more confusing.

Himuro is notably even-tempered, while simultaneously housing a simmering, low-fire kind of anger that doesn't go away. He's kind when it counts, but he almost always sounds like he's laughing at you on the inside.

When it comes to public displays of affection, he's open with his words, his eyes (the government should make him pay a fine for the way that he _stares_ ), but restrained with physical intimacy, hands kept to himself unless it's necessary, like when he doesn't feel like losing Aomine in a crowd.

Still, he's not so discreet that he'd turn down a dance — had even been the one to offer when the dance floor was barren and the wedding had reached a lull. For Aomine, it was embarrassing to pretend he had any idea where his feet would go, much less know how to be in sync with the music, but Himuro seemed to have no problem leading and eventually some of the eyes that had been on them became participants rather than spectators.

"Well, would you look at that," says Himuro, a smirk in his voice that manages not to lift the corners of his lips, "we populated the dance floor all by ourselves."

"If you get competitive about this, you're on your own," says Aomine, because Himuro's got that lilt that tells him they're about to land into trouble.

"Aomine Daiki turning down a challenge? I never thought I'd see the day."

"Everyone already thinks I'm an idiot." Aomine shrugs, at least two percent more accustomed to his awkward shuffle-sway than earlier. "I'm not gonna give them more ammunition."

At that, Himuro laughs, caught off-guard with the whites of his teeth showing, even. Aomine's heart does a little somersault everytime that happens.

"Wise words."

Himuro contents himself with humming along to the song when something he likes comes on, and Aomine's content with the silence too, having exhausted himself with tonight's endless expectation for small talk.

This changes when the band switches from their upbeat sound to a more mellow, muted number. Sappy, if he had to be emotionally constipated about it. Some of the dancers leave while some of the couples in the crowd leap at the opportunity, and through it all the two of them stay.

"We can sit down, if you want," says Himuro, and Aomine doesn't have to ask if he thinks the same. It's clear that he doesn't.

"I'm fine as long as you don't start staring at me like those fuckers over there." He motions to a pair that had been together since university like they were; Aomine hopes they aren't as remotely sickening.

Himuro smirks an actual smirk, instead of a suggestion of one. "No promises." His hands shift from Aomine's shoulders to frame his collar, thumbs lightly stroking the sides of his neck. This nearly forces their eyes to meet, but Aomine has the advantage of being taller, and so keeps his trained on the flower arrangement on a nearby table. Vaguely, he's aware that the way they're arranged isn't random, but it's all the same to him.

The last time he gave Himuro flowers for a special occasion, based on what they looked like rather than what they meant, Himuro had kissed him and said his thanks. He'd kept the flowers in a vase until they were dead enough to throw out, but Aomine still isn't sure if he'd done any of it right.

He's so distracted by this tangent that he doesn't notice Himuro's fingertips pulling his head down until their lips have already met, and even though he responds to it by kissing back, it takes a moment, to realize what _this_ meant.

Their contact doesn't extend past the threshold of what's inappropriate, but it isn't brief either. And it felt private, even in a room of people they know, or once had known.

When they finally part, Himuro cups Aomine's cheeks with his palms, and seems to be in half a mind to instigate another kiss.

Aomine stops him with hands to his wrists, a smirk of his own masking the fact that he can hear his heart beating in his ears. "I knew it. That song gets you in the mood."

It's his way of saying, _we don't have anything to prove._

Himuro acquiesces, resting his forehead on Aomine's collarbone instead. "Nothing gets past you, does it, Daiki."

Aomine grins like he's got a medal in his teeth. He's heard that phrase many times before, though it always used to be sarcastic.

It doesn't take a genius, but a guy well-versed in the study of Himuro Tatsuya to know that the truth is never in what he says, but in how he says it.

 

* * *

  
**things you said through your teeth**  
  
  
In retrospect, the night, and all the other nights prior spent worrying about it, is so laughably absurd that he can’t quite keep hints of it off his face — his infamous, practiced, poker face — even if it’s wildly inappropriate for the situation. But he can’t help it.

Aomine’s in front of him, looking like he wants nothing more than to be swallowed by the floor, and Himuro’s traitorous mouth can find nothing better to do than to curl up at the corners, so pleased (and admittedly relieved) by the turn of events that he forgets all manners and propriety.

Himuro’s pretty sure the Good Boyfriend Manual would be urging him to put Aomine out of his misery, and certainly to not take the slightest pleasure in his suffering, on today of all days.

But — if all goes well — he’s about to stop being Aomine’s boyfriend, isn’t he?

So instead of all the other merciful options, he chooses to lean back and take in the view.

Aomine is especially soft in candlelight, especially with his cheeks warmed by the blood pooling underneath. Himuro’s not done enjoying it just yet.

Seconds pass, then minutes, then little tastes of eternity. Before it could turn to hours, he finally asks, “is that a no, then?”

“No!” Comes the immediate reply. A few heads turn in their direction and it takes a second, maybe two, for the attention to drift and for the silence to get filled in again. Himuro quirks an eyebrow.

“No, you—” Aomine tries, tangibly rubbing a hand down his face, though that does nothing to dispel the flush in it. “You’re incredible.”

It’s not the first time someone’s said that to Himuro; the first time, it had been Aomine saying it too.

“As flattering as that is to hear, that really doesn’t answer my—”

“Can you just— just let me finish.” Aomine — with what seems like a Herculean effort — frees his face from the confines of his palms, setting said palms on the immaculate tablecloth, on either side of his forgotten plate. “I’m— yeah.”

Himuro’s twitching smirk gives way to a smile. “Yeah, what?”

The glare he’s shot across the table is positively homicidal. “Are you really gonna make me say it?”  
  
“If you don’t mind.”

A vein in Aomine’s forehead throbs — though that might just be a trick of the light, or of Himuro’s suddenly hazy, euphoric vision. “Yeah, I’ll…” His gaze flickers from the centerpiece flowers to meet Himuro’s, and though it softens slightly, he’s still grinding his jaw when he gets the rest of his sentence out.

“I’ll marry you.”

Any lingering trace of anxiety leaves Himuro in a rush — for the moment, at least, and that’s what counts. He revisits his earlier train of thought and finds that it still holds true: the spark of an idea he had to fight not to put out immediately, the indecision at the jeweler’s, the months of planning to get the night to go exactly right, the _doubts_ that whispered at him about their relationship, about himself… all of it, rendered laughably absurd by three simple words.

“Care to repeat that?”

“Don’t push your luck.”

This time, Himuro surrenders to his laughter, fingers reaching for Aomine’s right as Aomine withdraws and crosses his arms, pouting something fierce.

“Daiki.” The tenderness in it beckons Aomine’s eyes back to his. “Won’t you let me put the ring on you?”

If Aomine hadn’t been blushing then, he certainly is now.

“Whatever.”

Protests in his voice aside, he offers his hand. Himuro takes it, easing the ring — a plain gold band, completely disproportionate to how long he’d agonized over it — from its box and onto Aomine’s finger. It’s the right fit.

Aomine stares at it for what seems like a long while, his expression nearly as unreadable as Himuro’s on a regular day.

“I can’t believe this.” There’s incredulity in it, or maybe awe, and a hint of annoyance too, a cocktail that’s so classic Daiki that it’s a genuine shock when he starts choking up, “you really had to beat me to it, asshole.”

The ring seems to glint between them, though Himuro fastidiously ignores it to focus on Aomine’s gathering tears.

Good Boyfriend — Fiance — Manual would dictate some attempt at comfort, but he merely grins over a sip of wine. “And you’re a sore loser,” he says, well aware of his hypocrisy.

“We’re quite the match, aren’t we?”


End file.
